


As Many Times as It Takes

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Travel, eventually lol, given that Keith knows what Shiro's been through this time around, obligatory time travel fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-21 11:17:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11943033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: "Maybe he just blew his bank account on snacks for three cadets he vaguely remembers from school, two fictional aliens, and one dead man."Keith wakes up two years in the past, mere hours before Shiro crash-lands in a Galran escape pod. With all his knowledge of the future, Keith gets a second chance at saving the universe—and Takashi Shirogane.





	1. Chapter 1

Cracks light up the sky. There's a long, high sound as Shiro fires up his weapon. Black shudders; Voltron gives a mighty heave, and another round of purple clusters explode across Keith's line of view. Keith feels a surge of triumph; he makes to shield his eyes from the glare of the explosion, but can't bear to lift his arm. There's a wound on his side that makes his whole body feel fuzzy; distant.

“There are too many of them!” Pidge screams. Black fires another beam, but the purple creatures plummet out of range. Keith looks on, helpless as they loop back towards Voltron's right side, straight towards Red's muzzle. “Keith! Look out—!”

 

 

Keith rips awake with a cry. The sheets fly from his torso as he rolls onto one side; there's a great wave of limbs and clothes as he tumbles off the couch, then a thump where he connects with the floor.

Keith swears. He throws up a hand, and his fingers lock around the edge of the coffee table. He drags himself upright. Too fast: The blood rushes from Keith's head, and he sways. Keith clenches his teeth and cradles his head between his hands.

1, 2, 3, 4...

Keith dares to peer through his fingers.

It's early evening. Keith's living room is steeped in shadow, little white lines carving their way around the furniture where the light peeks past the window blinds. Keith shakes the sheets from his legs. He fumbles around for the chord to the blinds, and curses again when he unveils a burst of sunshine.

Keith waits for his eyes to adjust to the light. White fades to blue and beige; he squints out the window, past the dust-stained glass, and gawks at a sea of sand and sagebrush. Keith recognizes the whir of cicadas, their song muted through the windowpane. Keith presses his face to the glass and gets his first glimpse of the sun in two years.

No way.

Absolutely _no way_.

Keith staggers from the window, towards the front door. His bare feet meet wood, un-mopped and weatherworn, then stone as he enters the “mudroom.” Keith punches open the door.

A burst of wind hits Keith like a slap to the face. He can smell pollen, and the almost metallic tang of sun-baked earth. The desert seems to exhale; air cycles past him into the house, tousling his hair and coat collar. Keith feels a pinch behind his eyes.

Keith savors the sun on his face. He takes a deep breath. Then he slams the door shut.

There's a moment of contemplation. Keith pinches himself. He claps his cheeks.

When he throws open the door again, the desert is still there.

Shit.

Keith steps out into the sand. The granules crunch between his toes. It's hot enough to sting Keith's skin, but he doesn't care. He focuses his mind on Blue's aura, faint and foreign amidst the desert hills and valleys.

Back before Voltron—back before Keith found his purpose—Blue's energy had loomed like a specter at the back of Keith's mind, heady and unknowable. She'd seemed so distant at the time—so beyond Keith's grasp as a puny human speck.

Now, Keith closes his eyes. He focuses on the silver thread of quintessence that binds his mind to the Lions'. It's easy to find Blue's signature amidst the fibers; her energy glows out at him like a line of stars.

 _Blue_ , Keith sends out, _what's going on?_

From miles away, Keith feels Blue bristle. She seems shocked that Keith can speak to her. She asks a question, and Keith furrows his brow.

 _You seriously don't know? Aren't you supposed to be omnipresent?_ Keith massages his temples. _Whatever. What's the date?_

Blue rumbles, and Keith tenses like a pole.

“No fucking way,” Keith says aloud. He retreats back over the threshold, his feet red from the hot sand, and clomps across the house to the coffee table.

Blue pesters him as he thumbs open his phone.

 _No clue_ , Keith tells her. The screen blinks awake at him, charged despite two years of neglect. 5:06, September 20th.

 _Fuck._ _Is it possible to go back in time?_

Blue smacks Keith across the head with a slew of graphs, charts, figures and paradoxes. Keith backpedals out of the maelstrom: _Okay, okay. Time travel's a no-go. So I must be dreaming._

Blue sounds skeptical.

_Yeah, well. You got a better explanation?_

Keith resists the urge to wilt into the couch. He stands hunched over the coffee table, tapping absently through his phone's photo album. He'd left his phone behind on the trip to Arus; he'd missed the soft grip of plastic under his fingertips. Keith lands on a picture of Shiro, and his hand stills.

The picture is from a weekend hiking trip. Shiro has just scrambled up a rock formation; the camera captures him mid-wave, grin barely visible beneath the shadow of his Garrison cap. The sky is a vibrant peach at Shiro's back.

“Come on!” Shiro had called down. “It's beautiful up here!”

Keith's lip twitches. He can still feel the sandstone under his hands.

A long pause. Keith clicks off his phone and sighs. September 20th. The day Shiro returned to Earth. Keith has six hours before he crash-lands. The way he sees it, he can spend that time researching the butterfly effect, or...

 _Hey Blue_ , Keith ventures. _Would it break the universe if I went shopping?_

 

 

All things considered, Walmart is a fine distraction from the apparent collapse of the space-time continuum. Keith whisks through the isles with feral abandon. If this timeline plays out the same as the last, he may as well clear out his bank account. It's not like he'll have to worry about bills and groceries when he's thousands of lightyears away on a mission to topple an evil empire.

Keith picks his brain for his friends' favorite snacks and trinkets. Earth was a common topic back on the Castle; everyone had a laundry list of objects they'd taken for granted as children but would relish as war heroes. Pens, nail clippers, plastic bags, rubber bands...Keith snatches them from the shelves one by one. He remembers Pidge as he passes the “feminine care” section and ponders for a while over tampon sizes. He settles on the “regular” option and snags three boxes-worth.

Kieth is busy plundering the snack isle when he realizes he's blown his own cover. If he wants to share any of this loot, he's going to need to explain his superhuman foresight. What kind of teenager brings a backpack full of toothbrushes, Doritos, mini board games, and tampon boxes on a trip to a desert cave? Keith gives himself a week at most before Hunk catches him with his door open and rummages through his things.

Keith pauses to turn over a packet of Oreos. Whatever. If Keith really has entered some distorted version of his own timeline, and carried over knowledge of Zarkon's tactical plans—then he'll want to take proper advantage of the situation. To do that, he needs to tell his friends. Keith's taken on the universe enough times by himself to know he's no good without Voltron at his back.

Keith frowns. The Oreos crinkle as they connect with the mesh of his cart. He skitters around the store to the tune of Walmart's overhead radio, packing some scented candles on a whim when he passes them on a clearance rack. When he can no longer avoid it, he squares his shoulders, turns, and stalks towards the medical section.

The shelves scroll past, and Keith picks through the memory of Shiro's return one frame at a time. Shiro had been groggy from the Garrison's sedatives. There had been bruises around his neck; another, larger swath of purple on his hip and back. Keith carts a bottle of Ibuprofin and some Anicare gel.

Two years, Keith thinks, as his cart wheels skritch against the floor. Two years of night terrors and flashbacks and phantom pains. Almost as long before Shiro would let Keith see his scars under his shirt. Keith recalls one night on the main deck, when Shiro had padded up behind him and wrapped his arms around his torso.

“I remember,” Shiro had said, as Keith tugged their hands together. “I remember what they did to me.”

The Walmart radio calls for backup to the front lanes. Keith clenches his teeth. He balls his fingers around the edge of his cart and heads for the registers.

A backpack big enough to swallow the sea; safety pins; dried apple slices; discount notebooks...The computer beeps as Keith's tally rises up, up, up.

“You goin' on a trip?” the cashier guesses, as Keith unloads his cart.

Keith doesn't spare the man a glance. “Yep.”

“Oh? Where to?”

Keith moves to open his wallet.

“Outer space.”

As Keith leaves, the cashier asks to go on his break.

 

 

Upon arriving home, Keith fishes through his Walmart bags. His fingers close around five plastic vials; tiny Earth terrariums, one for each Paladin. Keith gathers the empty tubes to his chest, and steps outside.

Clouds crowd along the horizon line, but the air doesn't smell like rain. Keith wades into the sagebrush, bending every so often to fill a vial with dirt, sand, and juniper bark. Birds bob between the rocks, their beady eyes curious as Keith's boots press new holes into the clay.

Keith wanders for a good hour before he stops, sets down his things, and lays down in the sand. It's been too long since Keith last felt the desert under his hands. He'd missed how the heat blossomed up from the ground; the way the wind stung his face. Keith nestles down under the sky and lets the breeze chill the sweat on his face. He watches his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and curls his fingers into the dirt.

The clouds shift; the sky darkens. A memory rises up behind Keith's eyes. He's curled beside Shiro on his bed. Shiro's hair tickles Keith's neck as he nuzzles his forehead along Keith's shoulder.

“You don't deserve to go through this,” Shiro murmurs. “You should be safe back home.”

Keith hums in disdain, plucked from the edge of sleep.

“Don't wanna' be safe,” he grumbles. “I wanna' be with you.”

A grasshopper sings across Keith's line of vision, and the memory vanishes. Keith pauses for a moment, caught between the not-so-past and present; then he sidles up against the sand, his limbs suddenly leaden, and staggers to his feet. He collects his vials and turns back towards the shack.

So maybe they have to start from scratch. This time around, Keith will do better.

 

 

Keith has to empty and refill his new backpack three times before he figures out a way to fit everything inside. His terrariums occupy the rear pocket, alongside a pack of cards and some mints; he stashes Pidge's tampons deep within the front pouch. With the zippers fully closed, Keith drags his too-full backpack towards the closet. He kicks open the door, presses the backpack between the wall and the generator, and retreats over the threshold. Nobody's crazy enough to want to poke around Keith's dusty closet—not even Hunk.

Keith putters around the shack for a while, out of ways to distract himself. He still has an hour before Shiro crash-lands onto Garrison property. Keith stands around at the foot of his couch, plucking sand granules out of his pockets. He remakes the bed; goes to double-check his fireworks stash. Like the last time, he has some left over from the Fourth of July. He and Shiro had ridden out to the wastelands together to set off some firecrackers. Keith pictures Shiro's face; the way his eyes had reflected the firecracker lights.

Keith smiles. At least that's a memory they'll still share.

 _Well Blue_. _How's about we head out early?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go again, assuming that Walmart still exists. It feels like a pretty safe bet to make lol. 
> 
> This chapter's tunes:  
> Time After Time - Quietdrive  
> Third Eye - Florence and the Machine  
> Maybe This Time - Sherwood  
> Roads Untravelled - Linkin Park


	2. Chapter 2

It's a bad idea.

Back at the shack, there were chores to do. Keith could've tidied up the “kitchen,” or organized his bookshelves. He realizes belatedly that he had access to a laptop, and could've sent some kind of email to his friends' parents. But now he's stranded on his bike, poised behind a rock formation with a bike full of explosives at his back, with nothing but the wind and Blue's anxious aura to keep him company.

 _Don't get too excited_ , Keith warns her. _Your Paladin's kind of an idiot_.

Blue huffs at him. Keith leans back against the rocks, eyes on the sky. The clouds are harder to make out now, shadows against a dark blue canopy. As Keith waits, the moon peeks out from behind the canyon walls.

Keith tries to remember the exact moment Shiro entered Earth's atmosphere. It had to be around 10 o'clock at night. Keith remembers two years ago when he'd set out on his bike, anxiety tight like a fist around his trachea, stocked up on fireworks for reasons he didn't even pretend to understand. At least now Keith knows what he's looking for.

Keith sags against his bike. He survived the first part of today thanks to the miracle of kinetic energy. It's Newton's third law of motion: Once Keith hyper-fixates on a task, he'll keep pushing until he hits a wall.

There's no wall today; only an empty sky over the Garrison's property line. It serves the same purpose.

The reality of the situation sits like a stone in Keith's gut. This is bigger than losing his relationship with Shiro. The fate of the universe is on the line. If he takes one wrong step, Voltron's successes will be reduced to rubble.

That, or—

Keith's gone totally nuts, and there were never any successes to begin with.

I feels more solid than Keith's time travel theory. Maybe Blue really is only a voice in the back of his head. Maybe he'll wait out here all night, and no alien craft will fall from the sky. Maybe he just blew his bank account on snacks for three cadets he vaguely remembers from school, two fictional aliens, and one dead man.

Keith resists the urge to fist his hands in his hair. He hooks his fingers around the fabric of his pockets, clomping along the perimeter of his bike like he can shake some sense out of the earth. The white tips of his boots are soon stained with dirt. Keith kicks a pebble across the sand; he watches as it strikes the wall of a rock formation with a feeble ping.

There's a pause. The pebble clinks down the wall of the rocks, rolling to a stop in a crater of sand. Keith stands for a long time, letting the wind ruffle his coat collar. He grabs a nearby stick on a whim, and cards it through the sand. He draws a lion head; a space ship; a hippo. 

It takes another ten minutes. A high-pitched whistle sounds from above; a lizard skitters across Keith's sand drawings, startled by the noise.

Keith's heart bangs against his ribcage like a fist on a door. He drops his stick, legs shaky as he scrambles backward against his bike. He turns his head this way and that, desperate to locate the source of the sound.

Then—there. Keith makes out a round, dark object, streaked with fire. A falling star, growing steadily larger as it plummets towards Earth's surface.

Shiro's capsule.

Keith smiles. He laughs—even whoops once at the craft. The whistled scream of it feels like static in Keith's blood.

The universe is at war—but Keith can deal with that later. Shiro's alive. For now, that's all that matters.

 

 

It's faster, the second time around.

The guards turn as Keith approaches, weapons half-cocked—but then Keith's explosions tear a hole through their vehicles, and they whip around, shocked out of their combat positions. Keith strikes, all fists and red fabric. He bats the guards around like baby chicks. Compared to the training bots, they're barely dust motes in his wake.

The military personnel inside the tent are more fun to dispatch. Keith enters, and promptly kicks Iverson across the face. He watches as his superior officer sprawls backwards across his monitor, fumbles once like he plans to fight back, then collapses onto the ground.

The doctors, not paid enough to hold their ground, scramble for the door. Keith can't let them leave. A man chokes on a cry as Keith's elbow meets his stomach. A woman clutches her chest; a tray clatters to the ground. Keith strips away each line of defense, official by official, until he uncovers an open path to the center of the room. There's a final thump of a body against dirt, and then Keith steps towards Shiro on the table.

Keith's has a couple extra seconds until Lance, Pidge, and Hunk show up. His eyes find Shiro's face. Just like always, Keith has to reach out and touch him to prove he's real. It's difficult to tell, these days. Shiro's clone had shared the original's soft skin. The Blade's hologram had perfectly captured the lines of his face. But when Keith's fingers land on the plane of Shiro's cheek, he knows. This is Shiro—or, the closest Keith will come to him ever again.

Keith's fingers twitch around the handle of his dagger. He yanks it out of its sheath, clipping the straps from Shiro's wrists. There's a rustle as he tows Shiro off the table. He moves as gently as he can manage, draping his friend's arm over his shoulders.

Lance appears a moment later, dusty and hot-headed. He whips up the flap door of the tent, the gesture vaguely accusatory, and glares at Keith. The shadows under his eyes are gone. His face looks rounder, his frame less wiry. There's color to his cheeks and skin from his time outside—even a sunburn across his nose.

“Nope—no, no, no.” Lance says, as he clomps to Keith's side. He throws Shiro's free arm over his right shoulder. “No you don't. I'm saving Shiro.”

Keith remembers this, of course. This is the part where he asks Lance who he is. Homesick Lance, who Keith has sat up with at night to ward off the fear and despair. Lance, whose wounds Keith has held closed as they lay, crouched beneath the shadow of enemy ships. Lance, who Keith has come to rely on as a brother; Lance, who has plucked Keith from the edge of death so many times. Lance, who has stood at his side as his loyal right hand.   

And now...well.

The sounds work their way out of Keith's mouth, raspy and flat:

“Who are you?”

“Who am I?” Lance demands, as offended this time as the last. “Uh, the name's Lance? We were in the same class together at the Garrison.”

“Right. Okay.” Keith's heart twinges. There's a crunch of sand as Pidge and Hunk follow Lance through the tent flap. Keith doesn't look up; he's not sure he can face all of them at once. “If you want to help, I'm not gonna' stop you. We need to get him outside.”

“Oh man. They're coming back and they do _not_ look happy.” The tent flap swishes as Hunk releases the door. “We've gotta' go. Do you mind if we catch a ride with you?”

“Bike's outside,” Keith says, muscles taut. “You and your friend sit on the back.” He stalks towards the tent door. Lance scurries to keep up. “Lance, help me get Shiro onto the seat.”

 

 

 

They have a head start on the Garrison officials. It's less of a chase than before. Keith still finds an excuse to fling himself and his friends off the edge of a cliff. In every lifetime, he wants to give the Garrison a run for their money.

It takes a good ten minutes to get to Keith's shack. It's difficult to be heard over the roar of the wind, so the cadets don't speak. Keith relishes the reprieve.

Keith can feel Shiro behind him—can sense his energy after years of Voltron mind-melds. He feels his hands start to quiver around his handlebars. He wrestles with the urge to pull over—to rip Shiro off the bike and simply hold him.

Keith focuses on the hum of the engine, and buries his nerves under the rush of white noise. His collar whips and cracks with the wind.

_Patience yields focus._

Time rolls on like the hills. A huddle of dark shapes emerge on the horizon line. Keith's home looks rickety and forlorn against the night sky. The contours shine under the moonlight, accented by the metallic glint of Keith's mudroom. The fence looks like a row of misshapen teeth, the antenna on the roof a pale needle amidst the clouds.

A sense of unease ripples down Keith's passengers.

“You live _there_?” Lance says, over the wind.

Keith kicks up the gears. Sand granules ping off his chest and cheeks; tufts of rabbitbrush bend and wave as the bike blasts a current through the plains. The extra whir of the propeller blades drown out Lance's affronted squawk.

The fence looms closer and closer. At last they reach the shack; Keith pulls up to the porch with a putter of rotor blades. He slips off the driver's seat with a puff of dirt. He turns, and gets his first good look at Hunk and Pidge.

Like Lance, they boast a certain spryness. Even Pidge, weighed down by the absence of her brother and father, made a stranger by her disguise, looks softer around the edges—more alive. She kept her hair a bit shorter on Earth. It looks silly now, all puffed up from the wind, her glasses filmed with dirt.

Pidge and Lance work to gather Shiro off the bike. They pass his dead weight to Hunk and Keith on the ground. There's a moment of disarray as the two arrange Shiro under their arms.

“Steady,” Keith warns, as Shiro's head lolls forward. “Lance, go open the door. It's unlocked.”

Lance, as expected, huffs. “So bossy.”

Keith thinks about the Black Lion. He struggles not to bite his lip. “ _Lance_.”

“Fine, fine.” A creak as he pushes open the mudroom door. “Nice place you got here, Keith. Very rustic.”

“I live for your approval.” Keith shifts his neck to look at Hunk. “Let's go.”

Together, they shuffle Shiro over the threshold. Shiro's prosthetic hand hangs limp over Keith's shoulder. His fingers brush Keith's coat as they totter down the hall. Pidge shuts the door behind her, and the light from outside vanishes.

Keith stops. “Light switch is on the far wall.”

A click, and shadows sprout out beneath Keith's feet. The hallway blooms under the hum of a fluorescent bulb.

“Oh,” Pidge mumbles. She looks up. “Of course. You guys have your own generator.”

“Something like that. My mom was a bit of an...” Alien. “Electrical engineer. Among other things.” Keith frowns. “The bedroom's on the left, Hunk.”

“Sure thing.”

They guide Shiro out of the mudroom, to the husk of Keith's parents' room. Hunk helps Keith slide Shiro under the bed covers. Keith had hunted down his softest sheets and pillowcases that afternoon, all aflutter like a mother bird. At least this way he knows Shiro will be comfortable while he sleeps.

“What now?” Hunk asks, as he draws back from the bed. The reality of the situation seems to dawn on him: “Oh god, we can't go back, can we?”

Keith lays Shiro's arms at his sides, over the covers. “Well...no.”

Hunk's fingers are braced around his mouth. “We broke curfew. We trespassed on government property. _We stole an officer from a Garrison field hospital._ ”

“And evaded arrest.”

“Great! Thank you, Keith. _And_ evaded arrest.” Hunk turns for the doorway. “I'm gonna' go put my head between my knees and try not to pass out.”

“Tell the others they can crash here,” Keith offers, as he leaves. “There are blankets under the coffee table. Living room's open.”

Hunk grumbles a thank-you. There are muted sounds as his footsteps fade down the hall.

Keith crosses the room. He closes the door quietly, like Shiro might startle awake. He doesn't bother turning the light on.

Keith stops a moment, arms crossed, and turns to watch Shiro breathe. The fingers of his metal hand twitch once against the covers.

Keith sighs.

Five hours until Shiro wakes up. He might as well multitask.

 

 

 

_Dear parents:_

 

No.

 

_To the parents of Shiro, Hunk, Katie, and Lance:_

_I am a time traveller and_

 

Absolutely not.

 

_To the parents of Shiro, Hunk, Katie, and Lance:_

_I am emailing to tell you that your children and I will be exiting the Earth's atmosphere today_

 

Fuck. Keith plants his face in his hands.

“What am I supposed to tell them?” he bites out. “'Hi, my name's Keith and your children were recruited to fly a bunch of giant robot space lions on behalf of the entire universe. Try not to worry about them too much. Have a nice couple years.'”

Shiro doesn't reply, of course. His body is totally limp on the bed. They've still got four hours before the tranquillizers wear off.

The laptop shifts on Keith's lap. He peels his hands from his face, steadying it before it can fall.

“I don't even know what happened,” Keith mumbles. “There was—this battle. Lots of cracks in the sky and bright lights. We'd made a new kind of weapon...” Keith pauses. “Maybe I'm dead. Maybe when your 'life flashes before your eyes,' you relive it, and once I catch up to the 'present moment' I'll die for real.”

There's the tiniest hiss of air from the bed. A snore.

Keith lets his shoulders droop. He leans back against his chair, and cranes his neck to peer at Shiro's face. There are deep shadows under Shiro's eyes. His skin is pale and unearthly under the glow of Keith's laptop; his eyes shift behind their lids, back and forth.

Keith wonders what he's dreaming about.

Ever so carefully, Keith reaches out a hand. He brushes the short hairs along Shiro's arm, coiling his fingers around Shiro's wrist. Warmth blossoms up through Keith's fingertips. He focuses on the thrum of Shiro's pulse, the soft contours of his skin, and closes his eyes.

The cricket sounds outside are a lullaby in Keith's ears. He struggles not to wilt against the side of the bed; to curl up at Shiro's side with his arm draped across his middle.

Keith's grip tightens around Shiro's wrist.

“What am I gonna' do, Shiro?” he asks.

Shiro's pulse flutters. It feels like a trill of fear.

They stay like that for a while, with Keith's hand on Shiro's wrist. His arms are wiry with muscle. If Keith focuses, he can make out the start of a scar along the curl of Shiro's bicep. It's redder now—newer. Keith trails his hand up Shiro's arm. He combs his thumb across Shiro's scar the same way he'd wipe a tear from his face.

“Every time I promise I'm gonna' save you,” he says, almost too quiet to hear over the crickets.

A breeze tussles the curtains. Sighing, Keith slips his palm from Shiro's arm. He adjusts the brightness on his laptop screen, and returns to writing.

 

 

It's a quiet thing. Shiro's fingers shake, then unfurl around the moonlit sheets.

Keith stirs, lopsided and sleepy in his chair. He's long since finished his email. The shadows pool around Shiro's form on the bed, thicker without the light from Keith's laptop. Keith watches as Shiro's eyelids twitch; feels himself tense as they shoot open.

There's a long, blank moment wherein Shiro simply lays there, still as a statue. He blinks, dazed. Then, ever so slowly, he tips his head against the pillow.

A strand of white hair falls across his nose. Shiro's gaze flits across the room, desperate like a moth around a lightbulb. There's no recognition yet. He examines the ceiling, the walls, the door. Finally his eyes settle on the chair at his bedside.

And then—a light behind his eyes. Keith dares to hold his gaze.

“...Keith?” Shiro ventures. His voice is cracked around the edges.

The air in the room grates against Keith's skin. Goosebumps raise the hair on his arms. He clenches his fingers around his pant legs, because otherwise he'd grab Shiro's hand.

Keith's mouth is a wobbly line. The name comes out in a messy exhale:

“Takashi.”

Shiro doesn't move. His eyes are wide and shocked.

Keith swallows. He studies Shiro's face, masked by the darkness but still so open. That look of utter disbelief...

Keith allows himself to unbend from his chair.

After a lifetime of suppression, physical contact is still a foreign language to Keith—but he's gotten better since his Garrison days. He knows now that it's better to reach out and be corrected than to never try at all.

He's only a foot from the bed. It shouldn't be this hard, after months of practice as Shiro's lover. But there's a new fear, now, with years of history erased from Shiro's memory. Maybe he should hang back like the first time—offer Shiro his old clothes and let him preserve that stoic facade. Give him a mask to hold onto.

But no. Keith stuffs down his doubts. His hand meets Shiro's shoulder.

Shiro stays still under Keith's hand. His eyes follow Keith's motions as he rests one knee on the bed, then the other.

Keith lets Shiro stare. He arranges himself on the bed so that he's poised on his side at the edge of the mattress, a breadth from Shiro's chest.

Keith's left hand never strays from Shiro's shoulder.

“You're back,” Keith prompts, gently. Shiro blinks. “You're free.”

Keith feels Shiro's shoulder hitch under his hand. With a terrible, bone-deep heaviness, he coils onto his side, towards Keith, close enough that their noses brush. The moonlight from the window catches the plane of his cheek; betrays the wetness of his eyes.

“Keith?” he repeats.

Keith raises his hand from Shiro's shoulder. Shiro bristles at the loss of contact—but Keith only places his palm at the back of Shiro's neck. In a bought of courage, he guides Shiro's head down against the dip of his sternum.

“It's me,” Keith confirms. He rests his chin atop Shiro's head, gentle as he cards his fingers through Shiro's buzzcut.

Another pause. The crickets trade chirps outside.

Keith feels a warm puff of air against his neck—a desperate, wounded noise.

“Is it really over?” Shiro chokes out. His fingers wrench around the material of Keith's shirt.

Keith's heart twists in his chest. His free hand—the one not nestled beneath him on the mattress—releases Shiro's head. He winds his arm around Shiro's back, to press him closer.

“Yeah,” he lies. The endearment slips out: “Yeah, baby. You're home.”

A relieved sob.

Keith traces patterns through Shiro's hair. He nuzzles the crown of Shiro's head. The memories scroll past his eyes—all the nights Shiro would wake with new memories from his time as a prisoner. The stories of metal tables and syringes, of sick cellmates who expired in his arms.

“Is this okay?” Keith asks, as Shiro's shoulders quake.

Shiro stutters on a laugh, the sound ragged and wet with tears. He presses his face to the crook of Keith's neck. He seems to find refuge there in the dark; Keith feels him start to sag under his hands.

“Don't stop,” he croaks.

If Keith had a choice, he never would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Our questions are all the same.  
> Identical words; how they feel brand new against different time frames.  
> Identical words against different time frames."  
> —"Bad Blood," Sleeping At Last
> 
> Ah yis, RISD. I would like...a day off, please. Like, a real day off. And some sour candy, while you're at it. Thanks. 
> 
> Next time: Projector headsets and a shell-shocked Coran. I'm guessing this thing'll end up being around four chapters? Maybe five? Woot?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are love...comments are life.


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